Shark Mate
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Charles is at the aquarium again, rolling up to observe the shark exhibit. It's his favorite, because one particular Great White is always there to remind him of Erik. .:. angsty Cherik twoshot.
1. A Shark Named Steel

**A/N: theonionistheonewhocries keeps giving me prompts on Tumblr! It's beautiful! So here's another one. The prompt was: "Charles was at the zoo agian, at the shark exhibit, it was his favorite. The sharks reminded him of his Erik. "You look just like Erik." He said to one of the great whites in front of him. God he missed Erik so much."**

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you don't want one of us to come with you?" Sean asks, frowning slightly as he and Alex play catch out in the front yard, since they couldn't get Hank to play actual baseball with them (one batter, one in the field, one to pitch and cover bases, trading off in a constant circle to see who can get the most home runs).<p>

"Yeah, Prof X, are you sure? Sean and I would totally go with you to the aquarium. 'S been a while since we've been out," Alex adds, catch the ball and pounding it into his mitt for a second before looking away from the wheelchair-bound man to toss it back at Sean.

"Heck, you _found _me at the aquarium. I love that place," Sean muses, smiling as he hurls the ball back at Alex and it goes over the blond's head.

"No, no; it's fine, honestly. But thank you both for offering. I can manage just fine, thank you." Because getting in and out of his car with his wheelchair is something he's been practicing, and if he needs help, he can always control some stander-by's mind for a moment and then wipe it so they don't realize they even helped a handicapped man for no reason.

So Sean and Alex wave goodbye as Charles drives his modified vehicle down the driveway, the gas and brakes up by his hands since his feet can only stretch out uselessly beneath the wheel. He glances at the metal chair and sighs.

At the aquarium, there is a fantastic exhibit where one can pet and feed small fish to a dozen stingrays, tiny ones as big as table place-mats. He visits that one for a while, laughing as a little girl shows him how to pinch the tail of a small dead fish between his pointer and middle fingers, palm flat and parallel to the floor of the shallow tank, for the stingrays to come by and suck the fish into their nearly toothless mouths.

They feel sandy and slimy on their backs, and definitively like a fish, made of firm, spongy cartilage and little bone.

They remind him to go see the sharks next.

But along the way, Charles does stop to admire the jellyfish; they are like sea angles, colorful and flowing and genderless and sightless, blind pieces of hope, but also capable of harm and defense via poisonous singers and barbs in their lovely tentacles. He appreciates the large tanks of them, some of them almost glowing, and then he moves on.

Finally, he's at the shark exhibit. Tank after tank of various types of sharks, ones of blues and greys and blacks and browns and sandy beiges and even rusty reds. They come in all shapes and sizes, some looking non-threatening and some looking as vicious as people make sharks out to be.

But Charles stops in front of a particular Great White in a tank of three of them. It's staring at him with one dark eye, but its gaze isn't as crazed or mindless as the other two's. Instead, this particular Great White is lean and slim and young, and its eyes are bright and its gaze intense.

It's as though this shark can _see into Charles _and it isn't afraid like the panicked other two, swimming in a rush around the tank. This one is slowly pacing the glass, back and forth, back and forth, locking eyes with the only person observing it on this side of the giant tank.

And it seems to be smiling.

Charles rolls up to the glass and presses his hand to it, and the shark bumps its nose against Charles' hand, and Charles can feel the vibrations through the glass. The shark moves away, then, only to circle back around and swim with its face as close to the glass as possible, and its eye follows Charles as it passes by this time.

A shiver runs down Charles' spine, stopping dead at the base of it where a bullet once lodged it self over two years ago.

"You look just like Erik. You even have his attitude," Charles chuckles sadly, and he presses his forehead to the glass. Quietly, to the fishy creature, he says, "God, I miss him so much. Whenever he smiled, _truly smiled, _he showed all his teeth, just like you. And he always watched me, too, just like you. And he had a thin torso like yours, and long legs like your long tail."

The shark shakes its head in the water, as if disapprovingly at Charles' lament.

Charles raises his head from the glass and frowns at the animal. "What? It's true. He was a very cunning, bloodthirsty man, always after revenge, and always reliant on his anger. You are no different, my friend."

The shark turns away then, as if in disagreement, and doesn't return.

Charles sighs and places his hand one last time on the tank before wheeling backward, turning, and moving on to the next exhibit.

But the shark tanks are his favorite, and he will always come back to see them like he has once a month for the past five. And he always talks to that particular shark, reminding him how much he is like Erik, and always getting no response.

The keepers of the aquarium once told Charles that the shark's name is Steel. Charles had laughed, and they didn't understand why. But he had laughed because of the metal name reminding him even more of Erik, because why wouldn't it? Erik bent metals like steel as easy as if it were rubber. So that, oddly enough, only made Charles grow fonder of that shark.

This time, on the way out, Charles takes out his wallet and goes into the gift shop. He purchases a small stuffed animal of a shark, one no longer than his forearm, and no wider even at the head than the center of his hand. It's soft and it has little felt teeth and shiny, blue-black beaded eyes and Charles can slip his fingertips into the gills. The tail has a wire in it so that it is posable.

That night, Charles sneaks his gift to himself out of its bag and brings it to bed with him. No one knows about it. It smells like the aquarium mixed with cotton and plush. But it's a shark and it's smiling and it's the closest thing to having Erik in his bed as Charles will ever get.


	2. A Rat Named Charlie

**A/N: A sequel sort of thing based off of a review left by beanrox. The POV is a bit different, but the concept is similar, so enjoy! ;D**

* * *

><p>Mystique didn't question him the day he came home with a small, cuddly, brown pet rat from the pet store.<p>

She figured that even men like Magneto need something to care for, something to keep them sane, something to keep them grounded. So she didn't question it, merely shrugged and nodded, stroking the creatures adorably furry little head and tapping its itty-bitty damp nose, and letting it crawl up her arm to rest on her shoulder and sniff her hair.

Magneto loves this rat, Mystique figures out after about a week. She can't put her finger on why, but he's very involved with it around his normal work; and, somehow, the rat is just as bonded to him. It perches on his cape, winding between shoulders, trailing across the back of his neck on occasion, and it always nudges his ear or licks his fingers when his raises a hand to pat it.

She notices, too, that the odd little rat his blue eyes, a rarity for rats, a mutation, because most rats have brown eyes that are nearly black, unless they are albino, and their eyes are red. But this rat his blue eyes, sweet and intelligent-looking, and noticeable from even far away.

Mystique doesn't understand, because the rat doesn't even have a cage. It comes and goes as it pleases, but it knows how to stay out of trouble, and it always returns to Magneto's room at night, and once, when Mystique peeks in to ask Magneto something, the rat is on the pillow beside his head, curled up in a ball, its triangular head tucked into its chest, it making small squeaks as it breathes out, almost like snoring to match Magneto's deep breathing.

She turns and leaves the room without asking a thing after that.

And then once, just once, she hears Magneto in the bathroom, shaving, and she peers through the crack in the door when she hears him talking to someone.

The little brown rat is actually unusual again; it's playing in the water, cleaning itself, and glancing up with a bobbing head now and again to sniff the air in Magneto's general direction. And Magneto is speaking to it, his voice soft and indescribably toned.

"You remind me so much of him, do you know that, Charlie?"

She had thought the name an odd choice, but now it makes sense. It was never one of Charles Xavier's nicknames (he was too professional to be called 'Charlie,' even as a child), but it is a derogative of the name 'Charles,' so it all makes sense, now. It makes the organ beneath her breast ache. She hears Magneto – no, _Erik,_ rather, because this is his softer side, a piece of him from the past – continue to speak.

"Your fur is not quite a shade dark enough, but it's a similar hue to his hair. And yours even have a slight wave to it, like his had. And your eyes – what sort of rat has blue eyes? They're too dark to be his, but it's close enough that it catches me off-guard. And you're a quick, bright rat; no rat is as clever as you are, not quite. And then there is a matter of how attached you are to me; why are you so keen on being so close when I am around? Most rats busy themselves with other, non-human things, but you're a curious one, because you rarely leave my side."

He pauses, rinses his razor in the water, and watches for a moment as the rat climbs out of the sink, shakes itself into a spiky puff, and wipes its head with its front paws before moving over to the hand Erik has balanced on the ledge of the sink counter. It licks his finger at the first knuckle from his fingernail, and peers up at him, a curt squeak emitting from it.

Erik doesn't break eye contact with it. Even quieter, he tells it, "And there you go again, being my adorable little lab-rat. How do you seem to know just what I'm thinking, my wee friend?"

And the rat simply climbs up Erik's bare arm to curl against his throat on his bare shoulder, the top of its head nudging his jaw before it closes its eyes, still a bit wet, and seems to fall asleep.

Mystique watches as Erik carefully shaves the rest of his face in a manner that doesn't disturb his pet.

She then turns and leaves, shaking her head with Raven-like tears brimming her eyes, and she wipes them angrily away, hurt turning down in her gut. She feels betrayed; how could she ever think for a moment that Erik didn't love Charles, and instead loved (or was beginning to fall in love with?) her instead? How did she even assume for a moment that they had something stronger?

They never did. Erik will always have a reserved place for Charles Xavier in his heart, and for the time being, he has to make due with a substitute (that isn't her) to care for, and it comes in the uncanny form of a little brown rat named Charlie who seems to need just as much protection and possess just as much charm as her former brother.

Mystique shivers, the notion pathetic and depressing, yet sweet and endearing all at once. She reminds herself to respect and care for the rat more the next time she comes across it. And she reminds herself, too, not to ever bring up what she heard and saw to Magneto; he wouldn't like knowing something so private and personal was exposed to another; he wouldn't like it one bit.

So she keeps it to herself and moves on, the rat's cute squeaks now echoes of spoken words in her brother's voice in her head.

_-done._


End file.
